THE PICTURESQUE COAST OP KAMCHATKA--ARRIVAL IN PETROPAVLOVSK
BRIG "OLGA," AT SEA, 200 MILES FROM KAMCHATKA.
_August 17, 1865._
Our voyage is at last drawing to a close, and after seven long weeks
of cold, rainy, rough weather our eyes are soon to be gladdened again
by the sight of land, and never was it more welcome to weary mariner
than it will be to us. Even as I write, the sound of scraping and
scrubbing is heard on deck, and proclaims our nearness to land. They
are dressing the vessel to go once more into society. We were only 255
miles from the Kamchatkan seaport of Petropavlovsk (pet-ro-pav'-lovsk)
last night, and if this favourable breeze holds we expect to reach
there to-morrow noon. It has fallen almost to a dead calm, however,
this morning, so that we may be delayed until Saturday.
AT SEA, OFF THE COAST OF KAMCHATKA.
_Friday, August 18, 1865._
We have a fine breeze this morning; and the brig, under every stitch
of canvas that will draw, is staggering through the seas enveloped in
a dense fog, through which even her topgallant sails show mistily.
Should the wind continue and the fog be dissipated we may hope to see
land tonight.
11 A.M.
I have just come down from the topgallant yard, where for the last
three hours I have been clinging uncomfortably to the backstays,
watching for land, and swinging back and forth through the fog in the
arc of a great circle as the vessel rolled lazily to the seas. We
cannot discern any object at a distance of three ships' lengths,
although the sky is evidently cloudless. Great numbers of gulls,
boobies, puffin, fish-hawks, and solan-geese surround the ship, and
the water is full of drifting medusae.
NOON.
Half an hour ago the fog began to lift, and at 11.40 the captain, who
had been sweeping the horizon with a glass, shouted cheerily, "Land
ho! Land ho! Hurrah!" and the cry was echoed simultaneously from stem
to stern, and from the galley to the topgallant yard. Bush, Mahood,
and the Major started at a run for the forecastle; the little
humpbacked steward rushed frantically out of the galley with his hands
all dough, and climbed up on the bulwarks; the sailors ran into the
rigging, and only the man at the wheel retained his self-possession.
Away ahead, drawn in faint luminous outlines above the horizon,
appeared two high conical peaks, so distant that nothing but the white
snow in their deep ravines could be seen, and so faint that they
could hardly be distinguished from the blue sky beyond. They were
the mountains of Villuchinski (vil-loo'-chin-ski) and Avacha
(ah-vah'-chah), on the Kamchatkan coast, fully a hundred miles away.
The Major looked at them through a glass long and eagerly, and then
waving his hand proudly toward them, turned to us, and said with a
burst of patriotic enthusiasm, "You see before you my country--the
great Russian Empire!" and then as the fog drifted down again upon the
ship, he dropped suddenly from his declamatory style, and with a look
of disgust exclaimed, "Chort znaiet shto etta takoi [the Devil only
knows what it means]--it _is_ a curious thing! fog, fog, nothing but
fog!"
In five minutes the last vestige of "the great Russian Empire"
had disappeared, and we went below to dinner in a state of joyful
excitement, which can never be imagined by one who has not been
forty-six days at sea in the North Pacific.
4 P.M.
We have just been favoured with another view of the land. Half an hour
ago I could see from the topgallant yard, where I was posted, that the
fog was beginning to break away, and in a moment it rose slowly like a
huge grey curtain, unveiling the sea and the deep-blue sky, letting in
a flood of rosy light from the sinking sun, and revealing a picture of
wonderful beauty. Before us, stretching for a hundred and fifty miles
to the north and south, lay the grand coast-line of Kamchatka, rising
abruptly in great purple promontories out of the blue sparkling sea,
flecked here with white clouds and shreds of fleecy mist, deepening in
places into a soft quivering blue, and sweeping backward and upward
into the pure white snow of the higher peaks. Two active volcanoes,
10,000 and 16,000 feet in height, rose above the confused jagged
ranges of the lower mountains, piercing the blue sky with sharp white
triangles of eternal snow, and drawing the purple shadows of evening
around their feet. The high bold coast did not appear, in that clear
atmosphere, to be fifteen miles away, and it seemed to have risen
suddenly like a beautiful mirage out of the sea. In less than five
minutes the grey curtain of mist dropped slowly down again over the
magnificent picture, and it faded gradually from sight, leaving us
almost in doubt whether it had been a reality, or only a bright
deceptive vision. We are enveloped now, as we have been nearly all
day, in a thick clammy fog.
HARBOUR OP PETROPAVLOVSK, KAMCHATKA.
_August 19, 1865._
At dark last night we were distant, as we supposed, about fifteen
miles from Cape Povorotnoi (po-vo-rote'-noi) and as the fog had closed
in again denser than ever, the captain dared not venture any nearer.
The ship was accordingly put about, and we stood off and on all night,
waiting for sunrise and a clear atmosphere, to enable us to approach
the coast in safety. At five o'clock I was on deck. The fog was colder
and denser than ever, and out of it rolled the white-capped waves
raised by a fresh south-easterly breeze. Shortly before six o'clock
it began to grow light, the brig was headed for the land, and under
foresail, jib, and topsails, began to forge steadily through the
water. The captain, glass in hand, anxiously paced the quarterdeck,
ever and anon reconnoitring the horizon, and casting a glance up to
windward to see if there were any prospect of better weather. Several
times he was upon the point of putting the ship about, fearing to run
on a lee shore in that impenetrable mist; but it finally lightened up,
the fog disappeared, and the horizon line came out clear and distinct.
To our utter astonishment, not a foot of land could be seen in any
direction! The long range of blue mountains which had seemed the
previous night to be within an hour's sail--the lofty snowy peaks--the
deep gorges and the bold headlands, had all
"--melted into thin air,
Leaving not a rack behind."
There was nothing to indicate the existence of land within a thousand
miles, save the number and variety of the birds that wheeled curiously
around our wake, or flew away with a spattering noise from under our
bows. Many were the theories which were suggested to account for the
sudden disappearance of the high bold land. The captain attempted to
explain it by the supposition that a strong current, sweeping off
shore, had during the night carried us away to the south-east. Bush
accused the mate of being asleep on his watch, and letting the ship
run over the land, while the mate declared solemnly that he did not
believe that there had been any land there at all; that it was only a
mirage. The Major said it was "pagánni" (abominable) and "a curious
thing," but did not volunteer any solution of the problem. So there we
were.
We had a fine leading wind from the south-east, and were now going
through the water at the rate of seven knots. Eight o'clock, nine
o'clock, ten o'clock, and still no appearance of land, although we
had made since daylight more than thirty miles. At eleven o'clock,
however, the horizon gradually darkened, and all at once a bold
headland, terminating in a precipitous cliff, loomed up out of a thin
mist at a distance of only four miles. All was at once excitement. The
topgallant sails were clewed up to reduce the vessel's speed, and her
course was changed so that we swept round in a curve broadside to the
coast, about three miles distant. The mountain peaks, by which we
might have ascertained our position, were hidden by the clouds and
fog, and it was no easy matter to ascertain exactly where we were.
Away to the left, dimly defined in the mist, were two or three more
high blue headlands, but what they were, and where the harbour of
Petropavlovsk might be, were questions that no one could answer. The
captain brought his charts, compass, and drawing instruments on deck,
laid them on the cabin skylight, and began taking the bearings of the
different headlands, while we eagerly scanned the shore with glasses,
and gave free expressions to our several opinions as to our situation.
The Russian chart which the captain had of the coast was fortunately
a good one, and he soon determined our position, and the names of the
headlands first seen. We were just north of Cape Povorotnoi, about
nine miles south of the entrance of Avacha Bay. The yards were now
squared, and we went off on the new tack before a steady breeze from
the south-east. In less than an hour we sighted the high isolated
rocks known as the "Three Brothers," passed a rocky precipitous
island, surrounded by clouds of shrieking gulls and parrot-billed
ducks, and by two o'clock were off "the heads" of Avacha Bay, on which
is situated the village of Petropavlovsk. The scenery at the entrance
more than equalled our highest anticipations. Green grassy valleys
stretched away from openings in the rocky coast until they were lost
in the distant mountains; the rounded bluffs were covered with clumps
of yellow birch and thickets of dark-green chaparral; patches of
flowers could be seen on the warm sheltered slopes of the hills; and
as we passed close under the lighthouse bluff, Bush shouted
joyously, "Hurrah, there's clover!" "Clover!" exclaimed the captain
contemptuously, "there ain't any clover in the Ar'tic Regions!" "How
do you know, you've never been there," retorted Bush caustically; "it
_looks_ like clover, and"--looking through a glass--"it _is_ clover";
and his face lighted up as if the discovery of clover had relieved his
mind of a great deal of anxiety as to the severity of the Kamchatkan
climate. It was a sort of vegetable exponent of temperature, and out
of a little patch of clover, Bush's imagination developed, in a style
undreamt of by Darwin, the whole luxuriant flora of the temperate
zone.
The very name of Kamchatka had always been associated in our minds
with everything barren and inhospitable, and we did not entertain
for a moment the thought that such a country could afford beautiful
scenery and luxuriant vegetation. In fact, with us all it was a mooted
question whether anything more than mosses, lichens, and perhaps a
little grass maintained the unequal struggle for existence in that
frozen clime. It may be imagined with what delight and surprise we
looked upon green hills covered with trees and verdant thickets;
upon valleys white with clover and diversified with little groves of
silver-barked birch, and even the rocks nodding with wild roses and
columbine, which had taken root in their clefts as if nature strove to
hide with a garment of flowers the evidences of past convulsions.
Just before three o'clock we came in sight of the village of
Petropavlovsk--a little cluster of red-roofed and bark-thatched log
houses; a Greek church of curious architecture, with a green dome;
a strip of beach, a half-ruined wharf, two whale-boats, and the
dismantled wreck of a half-sunken vessel. High green hills swept in a
great semicircle of foliage around the little village, and almost shut
in the quiet pond-like harbour--an inlet of Avacha Bay--on which it
was situated. Under foresail and maintopsail we glided silently under
the shadow of the encircling hills into this landlocked mill-pond, and
within a stone's throw of the nearest house the sails were suddenly
clewed up, and with a quivering of the ship and a rattle of chain
cable our anchor dropped into the soil of Asia.
[Illustration: Boy's Boots of Sealskin]